


Swans are notoriously violent

by anthologyofwhat (lea_hazel)



Category: Cinders, Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Amnesia, Betrayal, Bodyswap, Brother-Sister Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Circle of Magi, Epistolary, F/F, F/M, Gen, Gossip, Grey Wardens, Grief/Mourning, Heroism, Illnesses, Infidelity, Love/Hate, M/M, Military, Mother-Son Relationship, Motherhood, Prostitution, Rivalry, Royalty, Sex Magic, Sister-Sister Relationship, Step-siblings, Storytelling, Tattoos, Tragedy, Ultimate Sacrifice, Women In Power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 7,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lea_hazel/pseuds/anthologyofwhat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Responses to prompts on Tumblr - anthologyofwhat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scandal - Cinders, Sophia/Basile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophia/Basile for jillyfae.

“I don’t see why not.” 

Sophia frowned. “This is the nation’s great reformer king? How do you expect to be anything but an autocrat, when you act so damned entitled all the time?” 

Basile smiled thinly and shrugged. “My reforms are unlikely to pass,” he said. “Your sister has taken that well in hand.” 

“Dear, sweet, tender Cinders,” said Sophia softly, quirking her lip. “She always was a bit of a soft touch. Still, the foiling of your constitutional ambitions is hardly grounds for something so… sordid.” 

“My beloved queen does not hide her favors,” said the king, “and I don’t see why I should not do likewise.” 

Sophia hemmed and hawed. “It’s true,” she said, “even a recluse like me can hear mutterings about Her Majesty and the most recently elevated nobleman in court.” She regarded Basile with some skepticism. 

“You can pretend we’re characters in one of those vulgar novels you so adore,” he suggested, leaning entirely too close to whisper into her ear. 

She enacted a loud gasp and said, “How scandalous!” 

“Yes, I thought you might approve.” 


	2. The New Girl - Dragon Age, Leliana, High School A/U

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana high-school A/U, for lifeofkj.

“I don’t get it,” said Solona. 

“Don’t get what?” asked Elissa, who was stealing fries off of Kallian’s lunch tray. 

“The new girl,” said Solona, gesturing with her chin at the redhead who sat alone halfway across the room, picking at her limp salad. “What’s her deal?” 

“Quit it!” said Kallian irritably and elbowed Elissa, who just laughed. 

“What’s to get?” asked Neria. “She’s a girl, she’s new. She doesn’t know anyone so she’s sitting alone.” 

“It’s a little sad that she’s alone,” Lyna piped up, before sinking back into the book propped up over her untouched food tray. 

Elissa switched to picking on her food, since she clearly didn’t want it. “It’s pathetic, is what it is. She doesn’t have friends, she should  _make_ friends.” 

“True,” Sereda agreed. “She’ll never get socialized if she keeps sitting alone in a corner and sulking like that.” 

“She’s not sulking,” Kallian objected. “ _That’s_  sulking.” She pointed at the second strange girl who had joined their school that fall. 

“Who, the goth girl?” snorted Elissa. “At least she’s sulking with style.” 

“At least she’s  _hot_ ,” Neria added. 

“Come on,” said Natia, “the French girl is pretty hot, too.” 

“ _That’s_  what I don’t get,” said Solona. “Is she French or American? She has that weird accent, but she says she’s American.” 

“Her accent’s not weird,” said Sereda, rolling her eyes. “You are  _so_ sheltered.” 

“I think she lived in France for a while,” said Lyna. 

“Her mom’s French,” said Natia, “but she was born in America. They picked up and moved to France after her parents’ divorce, but now they’re back.” 

Everyone turned and stared. 

“Quite the little spy, aren’t you?” said Elissa. 

“You’ve come over all creepy, Natia,” said Solona earnestly. 

“Whatever!” said Natia forcefully. “My sister has a class with her!” 

“Shut up!” said Kallian suddenly. “You’re missing all the drama!” 

A senior was approaching the new girl, sitting down beside her. 

“Is that…” asked Neria, mesmerized. 

“Cassandra Pentaghast,” said Sereda with satisfaction. “She is the biggest teacher’s pet in the universe, but if anyone can get the new girl in good, it’s her.” 

Across the room, Cassandra was sliding down the bench to sit next to the redhead, leaning in real close to talk to her quietly. 

“I’d  _kill_  to be a fly on that wall,” said Elissa, wide-eyed. 

“She’s never taken such an interest in the younger students,” said Kallian, “and she’s been hanging with the seniors since she was younger than us.” 

“Who needs friends,” said Neria, “when you have a sugar mama?” 

“ _God_ , your filthy mouth!” said Kallian, scandalized. 

It seemed the new girl was destined to be the talk of the school, one way or another. 


	3. The More You Know - Dragon Age, F!Warden and Anora, Bodyswap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bodyswap for sqbr.

The first indication that something was amiss was when the chancellor emerged from her apartments, disheveled and distraught, and imperiously commanded a page to summon the Queen’s handmaiden at once. Needless to say, this was a very unusual request. No one could fathom why the chancellor should make such an odd demand, for a simple elven handmaiden could not possibly be privy to matters of the court, at least not on a scale wide enough for the Hero of Ferelden to busy herself with. Queen Anora, though, never hesitated to grant the chancellor anything she requested, and this was no exception. In fact, idle servants gossiped, she seemed to consider the request quite natural. Something odd was afoot. 

While the chancellor conferred with the Queen’s maid, the Queen herself cancelled a number of important meetings and insisted upon leaving the palace grounds without an escort, against the protestations of Ser Cauthrien and the Guard Captain. Eventually she condescended to be accompanied by two guards on horseback, but set such a punishing pace for her mare that they struggled to remain within seeing distance. Though the Queen’s behavior was odd, to say the least, the palace staff and guard were instructed to indulge her, within reason. The years after the Blight were fraught, but after half a decade Ferelden was finally at rest; if the Queen saw fit to take a ride through the countryside instead of meeting with bankers and ambassadors, well, she had doubtlessly earned it. 

The peculiarities persisted for a week or so. The Queen gradually returned to a more typical schedule, rising early and filling the morning with audiences and the afternoon with contracts, ledgers and ordinances. Each evening she took supper alone in her chambers, joined only by the chancellor and waited on by her personal handmaiden. On the morning of the seventh day the Queen descended to her audience chamber and listened to the seneschal read out names and grievances with unusual distraction. Her attention perked, though, at the sound of one name, and she gave order to admit Enchanter Cyrus and instruct all other applicants to return another day. More puzzlingly still, the Queen immediately sent for the chancellor, and dismissed every other attendant, including a most irate seneschal. 

***

“Inform First Enchanter Irving that his timely response is appreciated,” said Queen Anora, her hands pressed together at the fingertips, “as is his  _utmost discretion_.” 

“Of course, Your Majesty,” said Enchanted Cyrus. 

The former Warden-Commander was less subtle, her hands drawn to rub her wrists over and over, as though she could not quite believe they were hers. “How fortunate,” she said dryly, “that one of our imported enchanters turned out to be versed in such obscure arts. You really could not hazard a guess as to the cause?” 

“Perhaps I could, Chancellor,” said Cyrus, “but it would be a hazardous guess indeed, and would serve little purpose.” 

“It would serve purpose if blood magic was involved,” said the chancellor pointedly, “as it would allow us to track those involved and bring them to justice.” 

Rumor had it that the Warden-Commander had mastered some of the skills of a Templar. Cyrus swallowed nervously. “I could not say, Chancellor, not for certain.” 

She harrumphed. “I see.” 

“Your Majesty?” the mage hazarded a question. “If I could… for the Circle’s records… a few questions?” 

“Ask,” said Queen Anora, “but be swift about it. We both have occupations that cannot be long delayed.” 

“Of course,” said Cyrus hastily. “When and how did you first become aware that you were… not yourself? How did you know that the body you were in was not your own?” 

The Queen’s brow furrowed, but the chancellor shrugged and answered immediately. “Almost as soon as I woke.” 

“Did you really?” said Cyrus, scribbling something on a piece of blank vellum. “And how did you know, might I ask?” 

“It was the first time since my Joining,” said the chancellor, “that I felt no pain.” 

***

“I assume the Circle has business for you in Denerim.” 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Cyrus confirmed. 

“Will you be remaining in the city for the night?” asked the Queen. 

“I am expected to depart tomorrow at dawn, Your Majesty,” said Cyrus. 

“Good,” said the Queen. “I expect you to report to my personal audience chamber tonight, after the evening meal. We have business to discuss.” 

Cyrus knew better than to argue with an order, although he had no idea what possible business he could have with the Queen, barring the minor enchantment he had performed on her behalf not an hour earlier. As it was, he had no time to worry about such things; a Templar was waiting for him outside the door, and he was expected at the Wonders of Thedas to deliver reagents and collect the book-keeping. He put the appointment with Queen Anora out of his mind quite deliberately, and refused to think about it until it was time for him to report. 

The Queen was as direct and relentless as her reputation. 

“It took me some time to understand what I felt, after the change happened,” she said, her back turned to him, apparently looking out the darkened window at the courtyard below. 

Cyrus waited. 

“My body felt weak, not ill or injured, for I was fitter than ever,” she went on. “It was like a smell, but not one that I could name or place, not at first. I felt suffused with it, a strange sensation, one I hope never to feel again.” 

“The taint,” said Cyrus weakly. 

“So I surmised,” said the Queen. She turned away from the window and her face was as stone. “It smells like death,” she said, “and I will not have it. Inform First Enchanter Irving that he is under royal orders to direct all of his resources towards curing the Darkspawn taint. I will brook no disobedience. You are dismissed.” 


	4. The Devil You Know - Cinders, Cinders and Gloria, Amnesia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cinders, amnesia, for lifeofkj.

She found her wandering around in the woods. 

No. No, to be perfectly honest, she found her asleep, curled up in the hollow between the protruding roots of a tree, wrapped in a cloak. Cinders was willful and sometimes reckless, but even Gloria didn’t believe her fool enough to go to sleep in the middle of an isolated forest, where no one could hear her cry for help. Something was direly wrong. 

When she shook her shoulder, Cinders opened her eyes and smiled beatifically. Odd, for a girl who had never hidden her scorn towards both her sisters. 

“Hello,” she said, almost demurely. No, this was not right at all. Cinders did not avert her gaze or bat her eyelashes like that, not ever. 

“What are you doing out here, all alone in the middle of the woods?” demanded Gloria, her voice coming out more cross and less concerned than she had intended. 

“Oh,” said Cinders, casting her eyes this way and that. “The woods? Is that where I am? I was just—” she yawned hugely, “—so sleepy.” 

Gloria narrowly resisted the desire to slap her face in frustration. “Get up.” 

“All right,” said Cinders almost enthusiastically. 

She grabbed the other girl’s arm and tugged. 

Cinders followed obligingly. “Where are we going?” 

“Town,” said Gloria through gritted teeth. “We have to find the captain of the guard. You can’t be allowed to wander around, unsupervised, and I am _not_  bringing you back to Mother. Not after your little  _display_  last night. Aren’t you supposed to be halfway to prison by now? Unless Sophia was correct all along, and your arrest was nothing but an elaborate ruse.” 

“Who is Sophia?” asked Cinders. 

As infuriating as she ordinarily was, this new, passive Cinders was also not to Gloria’s liking. Her sudden change of temperament was alarming, to say the least. 

“I have no idea what you might mean,” she answered stiffly. “Sophia, myself and you have shared a home for more than ten years. You could not possibly fail to recognize either of us.” 

“Oh,” said Cinders. “Who are you again?” 

Gloria almost screamed. By the time they reached town, she would have gladly traded the meek thing leaning on her arm for the Cinders she knew, complete with all her fighting spirit, petty meanness and constant insubordination. 


	5. Doubt - Dragon Age, F!Aeducan and Dagna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the random pairing generator prompt: f!Aeducan/Dagna, "I'm not sorry."

“Did you hesitate?” 

“Beg pardon?” 

It was the chirpy little merchant girl, she was speaking to her. 

“The Knight-Commander said you insisted,” she was saying, “that the decision to annul the Circle was ultimately yours. I just wanted to know if you hesitated when you made that choice. Whether you experienced any doubts.” 

Sereda Aeducan blinked. “Life is nothing  _but_  doubt,” she said. “Look around you. The walls and floors are still coated in putrid debris, the very air still smells of blood.” 

“Some of them could have been saved,” the girl insisted. “It’s such a waste… They could have fought in your army! How will you defeat the Archdemon without them?” 

She laughed bitterly. “How would I lead an army to battle if I doubt my own soldiers? Each one of them could harbor a demon within him, and I would never know until it was too late to do anything about it.” 

“I just…” She shook her head and covered her face with her hands. “I will never know how you can be so certain.” 

“That’s what soldiers do,” said Sereda flatly. “It’s best if you stick to doing what you know best.” 

“I have no say in the matter, because I’m not a Grey Warden?” 

Sereda quirked her lip. “Everyone has a place in the world, little girl. You seemed to think, not too long ago, that this shambles of a tower was yours. Did you change your mind already? You handle your regrets, and I’ll handle mine.” 

The girl just shook her head again, then turned and left. 


	6. Penny Rolls - Dragon Age, Sigrun and Shianni

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance meeting in the Denerim alienage. Written from a random pairing generator prompt for the Dragon Age Fan Week of minor characters.

“Penny rolls! Fresh from the oven! Ser, would you like to buy a fresh, hot roll? Only a penny, and they’re the best in Denerim.” 

“Ser?” Sigrun turned around to regard the salesgirl. “You mean— Are you talking to me?” 

The girl looked puzzled. “Yes. Can I offer you a roll, Ser? They’re only a penny each and they’re—” 

“—The best in Denerim, yeah, I heard you.” Sigrun shook her head. “I can’t believe you called me ‘ _Ser_ ’.” 

The salesgirl crossed her arms. “You’re wearing armor and carrying a sword,” she said. “What else was I suppose to call you?” 

“All right, all right,” said Sigrun, putting her hands up. “I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just, if you knew where I was from— Oh, never mind that. I’m a Grey Warden, so you can call me that, if you like.” 

“Fine,” said the elf. “ _Warden_ , would you like to buy some bread? If not, I suggest you stop scaring away paying costumers.” 

“Hey!” said Sigrun. “If anyone’s scaring away costumers here, it’s definitely you and not me. And yes, I would be  _delighted_  by a fresh roll. Surface bread is so soft and springy.” 

They exchanged money and goods briskly. 

“What do you mean ‘surface’?” the girl asked suddenly. 

Sigrun smiled wryly. “I keep forgetting no one recognizes my marks, here. I’m from Orzammar, originally. The bread there is made out of lichen.” 

The elf wrinkled her nose and Sigrun laughed. 

“Exactly,” she said. “This is much nicer, and easier to eat, too.” 

“It’s made out of chestnut flour,” the girl offered. 

Sigrun smelled the warm bread deeply. “People think I’m strange when I do this.” 

The girl shrugged. “If it smells nice, why not? You shouldn’t worry too much about what other people think.” 

“You’re probably right,” said Sigrun. She split the roll and nibbled on the soft inner fluff. 

“You’d better not throw away the crust,” said the salesgirl, pointing a finger at her, “that’s the best part.” 

“Oh, I never throw out anything,” said Sigrun with a smile. “What’s your name?” 

She looked startled. “Oh. Uh. Shianni.” 

“Pleased to meet you,” said Sigrun, holding out a gauntleted hand. “The name’s Sigrun.” 

“Sigrun the Warden,” said Shianni, squeezing her hand gingerly. “Do you know the Hero of Ferelden?” 

Sigrun grinned. “When do you finish working?” 

“Sunset,” said Shianni. 

“I’ll buy you a drink and tell you all about him.” 

Shianni grinned, a bright flash of teeth. “It’s a deal.” 


	7. Hale and Happy - Dragon Age, F!Brosca and Morrigan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Commander receives a letter from a long-gone ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the DARP prompt, "a long-awaited letter."

~~I will endeavor to keep this missive brief, both for lack of time and in consideration of your~~

~~In light of circumstances, I shall keep this letter~~

~~So as not to tax your~~

Let me be brief: all is well. 

 ~~My son~~   ~~My child~~   ~~The baby~~   ~~Our~~   ~~A person of mutual interest~~  He is hale and happy. That is all you must know. 

~~You need not concern~~

~~I am quite able~~

Do not worry about us. 

I have heard something of your recent troubles.  ~~You acquitted~~   ~~Rumors of your exploits~~   ~~By all accounts~~  You should be proud. 

 ~~I hope~~   ~~I hope~~  I hope you are well. 

Do not write back. 

M. 

***

“Are there any letters for me?” 

“Just… give me a moment!” The private fumbled with her leather satchel and produced a slim skin scroll tied with rawhide cord. 

Commander Brosca accepted the strange letter and made for her office, where Nathaniel was waiting for her. She handed him the letter without preamble. He struggled momentarily with the knotted hide string but soon spread open the scroll. 

“It is very brief, Commander,” he said. 

“Read it out anyway,” she said. 

She sat and listened, her chin balanced on clasped hands. 

“Good news, I trust?” asked Nathaniel. 

“Yes,” she said shortly. “As good as it gets, at least.” 

If he had any other questions about the enigmatic note, he kept them to himself. She dismissed him and filed away the rolled-up letter in a hidden compartment in her desk. One day, there would come a time when someone would have to learn its contents. Questions would be asked, and a reckoning would have to follow. Luckily for Commander Brosca of Ferelden’s Grey Wardens, this day was still a ways off. 

For now, the child Urthemiel was hale and happy, and that was all that she could hope. 


	8. Arrow of Slaying - Dragon Age, Leliana/m!Cousland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana's last confrontation with the Warden, at the gates of Andraste's final resting place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the DARP prompt "kill shot".

The first bolt struck her in the foot, piercing through the thick leather of her boots as though it were the finest lambskin. 

 _He had promised._  

Leliana had witnessed Aedan telling many lies. All in the service of the cause, he would say soothingly, raking his fingers through her hair. She wanted to believe him. Believe  _in_  him, and in her own judgment, when she followed him out of Lothering and across Ferelden. All the good deeds he had done. His soft words and softer kisses. How he would listen to her stories and her songs. How sweet it was to have someone to share her faith with, someone who didn’t scoff at her every word. 

She struggled to pull her leg out of its pinned position, to aim her bow, or drop it and raise a dagger. To defend herself, though a moment ago she had been the attacker. Although the bolt had gone through her foot and embedded in the ground below, she felt no pain, just a rush of incomprehensible anger. But the bolt had pinned her securely, and even as she struggled to get free, she knew the fight was over. 

Aedan stared her down over the sight of his crossbow. From such a distance, she knew she only imagined she could hear the gears grinding and clicking into place as he pulled the trigger. Leliana kept her gaze straight, refusing to look away from the face of her killer. 

“The righteous stand before—” she whispered. 

The second bolt struck her in the throat, shot with such force behind it that it ripped straight through, flesh and bone, and she hardly had time to bleed. 


	9. Stigma - Dragon Age, f!Hawke and Carver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hawkes go to Ostagar to join the king's army.

When the needle first hit her skin, it was Carver who flinched, not her. 

"If you don’t have the stomach," the tattooist told him off crisply, “then go someplace else and don’t distract me."  

Dido thought he would leave, then, go off with his new friends to drink and boast and do whatever boys did when they first came out from under their fathers’ thumbs. But he stayed, and watched with fascination as the needle danced over her cheek and jaw, exchanging blood for ink. 

"It’s right on your face!" he’d protested when she told him what she planned. 

"I know what I’m doing." 

"Are you sure?" His face creased with a frown so earnest it could have been a caricature of their mother. “Everyone will see it!" 

"That’s the idea," Dido explained patiently. 

He lowered his voice and tugged on her arm insistently. “You know what I mean." 

"We have nothing to hide, Carver," she said. “We’re soldiers in the king’s army. Lots of soldiers have tattoos. It’s perfectly normal." 

"What about—" 

She cut in ruthlessly. “Bethany’s a grown woman, now," she said, “and you’re a grown man. I expect you to behave like one." 

So she asked around and found a tattooist and explained to him exactly what she wanted, a mark like she’d seen on a soldier’s face once, a man who’d passed through their village many years ago. Under her eye and right down the side of her face, and he’d added a flourish to the opposite side to even it out. On me, he’d said, for a new recruit. And she’d gone back to the barracks and been ‘ _the lass with the curl on her face_ ’ for six weeks before any of the veterans bothered to remember her name, and even then they’d stumbled over ‘ _Dido_ ’ and decided to just call her ‘ _Hawke_ ’. Carver wanted to tell them that that was their father’s name, but Dido elbowed him in the ribs whenever he tried. Time now, she thought, for her to be Hawke. 

Later, after she’d watched him charge at that ogre, howling out his battle cry as though it were no bigger thing than a wrestling match in the barracks, she wondered. Poor, reckless Carver, barreling after a monster three times his size all alone. He didn’t even glance at her, didn’t even ask for her help. Just one fool move and he was gone before she knew it. And void damn her if she was going to let Bethany go the same way. 


	10. The Viscount’s Embarrassing Secret - Dragon Age, Cassandra/Bethany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For an anonymous prompt on DAFW's F/F week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mildy NSFW-ish, not actually porn.

“ _You_  are why he left?" said the stranger, her tone conveying a world of disbelief. “You will pardon me for saying so, Warden, but you don’t look all that impressive."  

Bethany crossed her arms. “You’re welcome to your opinion, of course. I won’t stoop to asking you how many times you’ve visited the Deep Roads." 

The Seeker harrumphed. “Surely it would take more than an apostate sister to destroy the reputation of the great Champion of Kirkwall." 

"How can you know what you know and still believe that?" asked Bethany. 

She looked Bethany up and down and finally said, “You just look so… _harmless_." 

Bethany threw back her head and laughed. “What did you say your name was?" 

"Cassandra." 

"You were loyal to the Chantry, once," said Bethany. “You heard all the stories, you must have. Mages have dominion over the powers of earth and sky, mages can travel the Fade in their waking, mages are capable of every imaginable depravity." 

"Surely," said Cassandra again, “you do not believe that of yourself." 

She shrugged. “After years of hearing it, it becomes hard not to. I  _do_  travel the Fade, and I can burn a score of Darkspawn to ashes before you’d have time to swing that sword of yours at one of them.  _They’re_  afraid of me. Why shouldn’t you be?" 

For a time the Seeker said nothing, and when she spoke again a strange light sparked in her eyes. “So. What sort of  _depravity_  do you believe you’re capable of?" 

Bethany smiled thinly and lit her fingertips aflame. “Only one way to find out." 


	11. Arcane Rites - Dragon Age, Morrigan/Morrigan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan meets Morrigan. For an anonymous prompt on DAFW's F/F week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW-ish, although not actually porn.

The mirror, she knew, was capable of a great many strange things. She had been studying it for years and fancied she had a good idea of what it could do. This particular turn of events, though, exceeded even her own wildest speculation.  

"I… uh," she said. 

"Save your breath," said the figure that had emerged from the eluvian. “I already know every question that you mean to ask me, and I have no intention of dignifying a one of them with an answer." 

Preposterous as it was, it seemed that the near-identical, although somewhat decrepit and quite ludicrously dressed, version of herself that she was facing, was indeed herself  _from the future_. Truly, the elves of Arlathan had held great and terrible arcane secrets before their downfall, which she now wondered how they could not have predicted. 

"Concentrate!" snapped the older Morrigan. “I require your assistance if we are both to complete an imperative mission. If we are to succeed, you must be at your least incompetent." 

Morrigan rubbed her temples. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re extraordinarily annoying?" 

"You know they have," said the older Morrigan. “Now  _focus_." 

She explained the ritual to her in great detail. 

"Surely you jest," said Morrigan. 

Her older self was unamused. “Do you think I concocted this rite for my personal entertainment? Rest assured, such  _communion_  has never dwelt in my mind. Indeed it would not have occurred to me had I not traveled great distances and gone to great trouble to excavate its secrets." 

"Must this be the only way?" asked Morrigan. 

"Why balk now? I know as no one else does what lengths you have already gone to in order to secure your son’s future and freedom." 

She shook her head. “I suppose you do." 

The older Morrigan rested a light hand on her shoulder. “For once," she said, “you have an ally you know you can trust." 

This was true, and surprisingly comforting. All throughout her restless pursuit she had been alone with the esoteric secrets she learned and the weight of responsibility they carried. For once, she thought, she could lessen the burden by sharing it with the only one who could truly understand its gravity. And she closed her eyes and turned her face up to feel a light, unfamiliar kiss on her lips. 


	12. The Ghosts of Denerim - Dragon Age, Morrigan and Oghren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the DARP prompt Morrigan/f!Warden - haunted and DAFW's tragedy week.

_Jader, 9:38 Dragon_

Every city, Morrigan had learned, had a place of gathering where one could see without being seen. In Jader that place was the dockside rag market. 

It squatted low against the sloping coastline, unprotected by the city walls, open to the winds that raked in from the Waking Sea bringing the smell of brine and the gull-cries along on their stinging cold wings. Eastwards, the pale horizon was a distant, frail sketch of the Frostback Mountains in blue and violet. To the north lay the city harbor where the skyline was decorated with ships’ masts and the ropes that hung between them like so many cobwebs. This port represented opportunity, a gateway to the wider world beyond. From Jader, ships sailed to every major destination in Thedas, and a heavy purse could get you almost anything you could dream up. 

Dreamers of that ilk filled the rag market’s complicated network of paths, milling in crowds in the major intersecting avenues, dipping and dodging through the cramped backway alleys. Everyone had something they wanted to buy, or sell, or steal, or trade. A perfect place for one woman to disappear among the thronging crowds and go about her business without anyone’s notice. Among the canvas, hemp rope and leather flasks the market also gave seed to rare valuables, if one knew whom to ask and was tenacious enough to search for them. One such curio was her object, if she could find it before her ship sailed at high tide. 

Morrigan disliked the market. She disliked all noisy, crowded places almost as much as she disliked casual touch and idle conversation, and Jader’s rag market possessed all of these qualities in abundance. Filthy children squealed at one another as they ran and played in the grimy streets, and sweaty fishwives could engage in entire conversations by shouting at one another from across the wide, thrumming avenues. Dozens of merchants plied their wares by shout and hundreds, perhaps thousands of shoppers bargained as stubbornly as mules. If there was a Maker, and he had devised a Void with which to punish mortal souls, this was surely it. 

It was impossible to make out one coherent word from among the vacuous babble that filled the air. That is, until one word rang clear in her ears, popping out from the roar of the unwashed human throng. No, not a word, a _name_. She spun quickly on her heel, trying to catch sight of such an unusual speaker. She had, after all, not heard that name spoken aloud in almost a decade. 

 _Come to think of it, no one had ever really called her by name, had they? She was just the Warden to them, however many times they heard her introduce herself by her given name._  

A child ran laughing, circuitous trails between the legs of irritated shoppers and smacked right into her. Rather a smaller, stubbier specimen than the other mucous degenerates, it seemed to her. A brass-haired urchin, mussed from rucking about in the mucky city streets, but flushed and bright-eyed with mirth. She turned and shrieked a crude apology before gathering her skirts and setting off in the opposite direction in a breathless sprint. 

"Lux! Lux, to the void with you, girl! Where have you got to?" an irate cry rose up from the crowd. 

So. She had not imagined it. And the voice, that, too, was familiar. Although perhaps the memories it conjured weren’t quite so agreeable to dwell on. Did not stir up, perhaps, that same abominable longing that had never quite left her side, no matter how far she traveled nor how many years had passed. 

Her hopes of going unnoticed, meanwhile, had gone dashed. Clutching the hand of a squirming girl-child, Oghren advanced on her, parting the milling crowd with heavy steps, waving his hand in salute. There was no avoiding him now, she supposed to herself with a sigh, and steeled for the encounter. 

"Morrigan, girl! Haven’t seen you since, uh, since…" 

"Oghren," she said blankly, trying to lend an icy cast to her tone. 

"Uh, yeah," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "Anyway, good to see ya after all this time. Glad you’re still alive and all. I’m just here with the Warden-Commander, we’re on our way to Weisshaupt, you know." 

Morrigan nodded curtly. 

"Say, I think you met him once," said Oghren, cackling. "Better not let him get wind you’re here. Never know what that man’s gonna get it in his head to do. But he’s a good man, yeah, and a good Warden. Not like some people." He snorted. 

"Yes," said Morrigan with all due curtness. "You could say we have been… acquainted." 

"Anyway, this here’s my little girl," said Oghren, shunting the child forward. "Felsi said I could take her with us this once as a special treat. Luxy, say hello to the nice lady." 

The rowdy little parasite squealed and hid behind her father’s broad back, and Oghren laughed indulgently. 

"I really must—" she said. 

Almost in the same breath, Oghren started, “Well, I oughta—” 

He laughed again. “We both gotta go,” he said. “Like I mentioned, we’re going to Weisshaupt now and, uh. Well, we’re gonna see the boss’s, well, you know, the place where they… All I mean is, if there’s something you want me to say or bring, uh… I don’t know.” 

Morrigan stood stock still, her present moment stretching slowly into future, dilating like the space between two heartbeats when lunging at prey. Oghren shuffled his feet and scratched his beard uncomfortably, and she snapped back to the noisy market and the milling crowd. Out of the pouch at her hip she produced a small trinket and pressed it into his gauntletted hand. He closed his fist around it without looking in, which she appreciated. Then he turned to walk away, towing the girl with the ginger pigtails behind him. 

"Good luck, Morrigan," he said. "Whatever it is you’re trying to do." 

She watched him walk away and her tongue slipped just before he was out of earshot. 

"Oghren," she cried out. "Thank you." 

He stopped briefly but didn’t turn. “Eh,” he said, “it’s nothing.” 


	13. Sacrifice - Dragon Age, m!Mahariel/m!Surana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the DARP prompt m!Mahariel/m!Surana - a force of nature and DAFW's tragedy week.

Theron Mahariel does not trifle with concepts such as “deserving.” 

Even on his darkest days, Alim has to admit that he admired the man. Admired him, perhaps, more than he resented him or even feared him. Other men would have been bowled over by the magnitude of the task that rested on his shoulders, would seek to lighten their burden by sharing the responsibility. Theron, on the other hand, wouldn’t have responsibility pried from his cold, dead hands. He made all the decisions. Oftentimes he would hear advice, but the ultimate decision was always him. 

His thought process was opaque. When he changed his mind it was reflected in his actions, a change of heart seeming sudden as a flash flood, and often as deadly. He was determined to kill every living being in the Tower, unswayed by Alim’s arguments, cajoling and eventually begging. When at last he faced the Knight-Commander, no one was more surprised to hear him say that the Tower could be saved. State it, with such authority in his voice, as though  _he_ were the mage who had argued relentlessly in their favor all those hours. 

No, Theron was never plagued by doubt, he just moved from one certainty to the next, leaping over seemingly insurmountable barriers with nary a frown. Once set, his mind answered only to his own conscience. The words of others didn’t touch him. He flatly told Arl Eamon that he believed Alistair unsuitable to be king, and refused to pick sides at the Landsmeet, stating baldly before the massed nobles that Ferelden was not his home and they should solve their own problems.

Alim himself would have been tempted to ply Alistair’s case in exchange for an advisory position. To have the ear of the King of Ferelden, that seemed to him a very fine thing. And, after all, they had been through a lot. He had personally lost his family at a young age and sacrificed years of his life to the Grey Warden taint. Given everything that he had sacrificed on behalf of Ferelden and all the lives he had saved, surely he deserved a little peace and quiet and, yes, luxury, in his few remaining years?” 

But no, said Theron. We do not “deserve” anything for doing what is right, he said, his voice dripping with ever so much contempt. Which truly hurt more than anything else. To realize how little regard Theron held for his opinion, after all their time together. He did not require him to obey his every order, only wished that he could spare a little bit more respect for his well-thought-out opinions. Only it was Theron who always knew what was right, not Alim. 

It was “not right” to do such a thing between two men. It was “not right” to make such offers. Grey Wardens must focus on defeating the Blight because it’s “not right” to put a single other, man or woman, ahead of the safety of all of Thedas. Taking a break, taking it easy, taking care of yourself, none of those things fell under a Grey Warden’s purview, per Theron Mahariel’s doctrine. No, he refused out and out; he did not take, he  _gave_. Gave up, gave out, and eventually gave in, as swift as any of his other transformations. One moment he was memorizing one of his sermons and the next they were all tangled legs and wet kisses. 

Alim tried not to question it too much. His life in the Tower had given him long preparation for avoiding thinking about problems that cannot be solved, and Theron was just one such puzzle. What did he care, as long as the enigma wrapped in a riddle still came to his bed every night? He had what he needed, and he had always tried not to be greedy. What use was it wasting away hoping and praying for things that one could never have? Be they mountains in the distance or his lost years back or, or, or… something else. 

So really, it was a foregone conclusion. He did not even consult with him, did not even explain the options. Just told him that Morrigan had decided to leave over the night and dodged his kiss, and ordered him with his stern Warden-Commander voice to get ready because they were marching hard and there was a battle to be fought. As though he didn’t know, as though he were a toy Warden who had no idea what the Blight was or what it entailed. 

And sent him to lead the defense of Denerim’s gates, because someone has to hold the city and it’s his responsibility. And went off, alone, to fulfill his own responsibilities, leaving Alim behind to eulogize him in front of a crowd of strangers who had no idea how infuriating he could be when he got a notion in his head. Like responsibility, and duty and honor, and how Grey Wardens don’t deserve any rewards for saving Ferelden from the Blight, not even their lives. 

And now Alim is in Amaranthine, a city that deserves a far better Warden-Commander than he, someone with a lifetime’s upbringing preparing him to lead men to battle, to rally his troops, to protect his subjects. Someone with an innate instinct for leadership that teaches him all about what he does and doesn’t deserve. Not someone who spends his first night as Arl getting drunk on prune liquor and pouring out his romantic woes to the kind but baffled seneschal. 


	14. Fit for a Queen - Dragon Age, Isabela and Anora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the DARP prompt Isabela/Anora - frivolous spending and DAFW's kink week.

Every time she went to shore, she cautioned her sailors not to spend all their earnings in one night. Of course, being Captain, she never took her own advice. The ship was hers, it wasn’t as though she struggled for income. Besides, one good card game would put her in gold again. Well, maybe two. So when she set her feet on Denerim’s docks she headed straight for her favorite spot in town and ordered the house’s finest bottle of brandy opened. What good was it being the Queen of the Eastern Seas if she didn’t treat herself the way a queen deserves to be treated? 

For the rest of the evening she diced and drank herself halfway into a stupor, and life was good. When the bottle started running low and the chairs around her card table emptied, she sank back into her seat with some satisfaction. She had a good buzz and a pretty girl on her knee who, any moment now, would lead her into one of the back rooms. What more could a pirate queen ask for? 

"Sorry, love," said the girl, "the best room is taken. You’ll have to settle for second." 

Isabela stirred from her drunken daze. “ _Taken_?” It was an outrage. “By who?” 

The girl shrugged prettily. “Can’t say. Sanga don’t tell me nothing.” 

As though summoned by the sound of her name, Sanga appeared seemingly from nowhere. She looked like business and she didn’t glance left nor right, which meant whoever was holed up back there was someone important, or at least rich. Behind her trailed two of her boys. 

Isabela hated not being the most important in the room, but whoever the mysterious customer was, he had won all of her respect. Clearly he had superlative taste, she mused as she rubbed her bleary eyes. She was quite certain one of the boys was carrying a coil of fine silk rope, and the other held a small wooden chest that she recognized from her last shore leave in Denerim, when it had held an impressive assortments of leather floggers. When, some moments later, an eight-foot horned giant followed them into the heavily guarded back room, her appreciation could only increase. 

But the girl who’d sat on her knee all evening was tugging at her wrist, and she had her own engagement to follow through with. And so with some reluctance she left without finding out the identity of Sanga’s most important client. Knowledge like that was worth more than coin, not to mention the priceless satisfaction of knowing someone’s filthiest secret. 

Early the next morning, as she was leaving the Pearl in the grey hours of the morning with a light purse and a head pounding with liquor, she thought she glimpsed a whisper of pink satin and an oblique, golden smile. But perhaps it was just her imagination. She  _had_  had rather a lot of brandy. 


	15. True Hate - Dragon Age, Morrigan/Leliana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For sqbr's prompt, "modern AU".

She detested her at first sight. 

Truly. From the moment she laid eyes on her silly striped leggings and ludicrously long sweater with its preposterous pompoms, she knew her fondest wish would forever be to stuff an artisan-knit sock down her blabbering pink mouth. How could one mind, however vacuous, produce such a steady stream of inane chatter? Yet it seemed her neighbor would never run out of subjects upon which to volunteer an unasked-for opinion. And why had she sat next to  _her_ , of all people? There were at least five other empty seats in the classroom. 

Perhaps it was just ill luck that the newcomer had sat by her, and now apparently considered them fast friends. As she filled her in on all the details of her special program combining philosophy and theology, Morrigan groaned inwardly (or perhaps outwardly) and scanned the room for an exit strategy. Just when she was preparing to make a quick transfer to a seat farther in the back corner of the room, the professor walked in and slammed the door behind him. 

"Everybody sit down and shut up," he said, and the room turned deathly silent at once. "Let’s see how little of last week’s lecture your dull minds have managed to retain." 

He was her favorite professor, of course. 

Morrigan was disgruntled to find that the stranger was very active in class, frequently raising her hand to ask questions. Worse yet, the professor didn’t seem irritated by her interruptions at all. Ordinarily any disruption to his steady pontificating would only earn a keen humiliating insult and his eternal disdain, but this effusive oaf he regarded more highly than any of the slack-jawed fools in the class, and more worryingly, more than Morrigan herself. She was accustomed to being acknowledged as the brightest mind in any room she entered, a fine prize attained at the low cost of being widely despised. Such an upset to the natural order was… intolerable. 

When the lecture ended she rose abruptly and marched across the room and out the door at her best pace. Halfway down the hall to the library she realized that the newcomer was half a step behind her. 

She was smiling brightly. “My name is Leliana. Nice to meet you. Wasn’t that lecture just fascinating?” She held out her hand for a handshake. 

This was no ordinary woman. This was, in fact, the personification of everything that she hated in the world. 

"Why are you following me around?" she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. 

"I thought we could be friends," said the ginger-haired she-devil with not a waver in her smile. "You know, since we’re in the same class." 

"We. Are not. Friends." 

"Not yet," said Leliana, "but we will be." 

"Are you a fortune teller now?" asked Morrigan. "You can see the future, can you? Perhaps, then, you can tell me which stocks I should invest in in the coming quarter." 

Leliana laughed. “You’re funny.” 

Her laughter was the most infuriating thing about her yet. 

She was wrong, of course. Although she incessantly sought her company all that semester, her prediction of friendship could not be farther from the truth. Oh, they were many things to each other, yes. But never friends. 


	16. Tales - Dragon Age, Morrigan/Leliana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for prozacpark's prompt, "lies".

When they stopped at inns and taverns Leliana would sing and tell tales to whatever audience could be found. Sometimes the innkeeper would reward them for the entertainment with free supper, especially in remote villages where nothing much was going on. She would spin tales of the Hero of Ferelden and everyone, children and adults alike, would listen with rapt attention. 

They were all lies, of course. Not about the ashes, or the archdemon, or any of that. It was the other, darker side of the tale which Morrigan objected to. The grandness and the glory, the heroism, those were lies. She knows not why Leliana would lie about such things. They had both been there, after all. Both shivered, cold and damp in their useless tents, both gone hungry when supplies ran out and there was not a house or farm in sight. They’d been spattered with the blood of their enemies, and seen their own seep out, near unto death. Where was the glory in such things? The heroism? 

Often at night Leliana calls her name out, softly in the dark. She calls to Morrigan to thank her, for saving her life. This is also a lie; she had done no such thing. She had only dragged her, limp and silent, down the the endless stairs of Fort Drakon. Before the other Wardens appeared with their prying questions. After the fall. She had only reminded Leliana of who she truly was: a killer. A predator, too strong and tenacious to fall down and die. 

How could one believe in glory after watching one’s only friend perish so needlessly in its name? 

But she would not let another fall. She told herself, over and over, that it was only the senseless waste she was trying to prevent. Only the proud, defiant life she was trying to preserve, and not her twice-broken heart. She told herself she could never be so weak as to succumb to the bonds of love. This too, she knew, was a lie. 


End file.
